drawing lessons

I used to be a watcher when I was little. I was very intent about it and almost never smiled. I earned the name, “the old woman” because of it. I could be very still, watching what the larger people in my life did, not really understanding, just taking it all in. When I was outside, I watched the animals and plants as well. Especially the birds. I tried to will them to come to me. I begged them without words, just yearning, but they stayed in the trees. I began climbing trees to get to them, but they took to the sky.

I had one tree I especially liked. It lived in our front yard, set down the hill a bit, away from the house. I knew this tree as well as I knew my own room. I could climb it and perch way up, where the branches swayed with what little weight I had to offer. It was peaceful up there and I was safe from the looks and questions and demands my parents and the others had for me. I was safely content to be up in a tree rather than down there, with the other children, where I always felt I had to defend myself from their prying eyes and loud mouths.

I wouldn’t call my internal world a happy one. No, it was more a feeling one full of sighs and wishes. Looking, watching, examining, figuring things out, longing to be part of the world of feathers, fur, branches and bark. The external world, the world of people pulling and pushing, harshly proclaiming their displeasure at my reluctance to talk to them was simply too loud for me to handle. There was no respect for the boundaries of my world. They just burst into my space anytime they felt like it, even when they could see that it caused a great deal of distress and pain.

All I wanted to do really, was draw everything I saw. So I peered at everything and recorded what I saw on paper. I had to, there was no choice in the matter. It was what I was. It was why I was. And they even used that against me as punishment for being quiet.

My father hated the way I did everything. He even hated the way I ate my food. “Don’t just eat all the peas at once. Take a bite of the peas…now take a bite of the potatoes…now eat some of the meat,” he would bully me as we sat at the table. Every meal was a misery. If I didn’t like the look of a thing, he made me taste it anyway. If I didn’t like what I tasted, I was a fool or a liar or some other name that would send him into a tirade, pushing away from the table with disgust to go sulk in the living room, or possibly out the door to the nearest bar.

So, when I had done some thing, a thing I can’t even remember, but a thing so absolutely awful that only a quiet child of 5 could do, he took away my pencils and my pads of paper. He told me I couldn’t draw for 2 weeks. I drew too much anyway, and I drew all the wrong things the wrong way. So he took the thing I truly needed to survive in the world away.

It hurt. Oh, how my hands hurt! There was nothing I could do to ease the pain — I still remember looking at my hands, holding them close to my belly, trying to ease the tension, the ache of not drawing. Crying in my room, begging my mother as she stood on the other side of the door, “Please, please, I have to draw. My hands hurt.” I think she understood because she smuggled a pad of paper and a pencil to me, through the crack of the door, telling me not to let Dad know. Later, I heard them yelling. Mom telling him how wrong he was, he telling her terrible things about all of us. The fighting went on, building in intensity and cruelty as it always did, until finally, Dad slammed out the door and Mom retreated to the kitchen to cry at the table.

I stayed in my room, listening and drawing, waiting for the sun to come up so I could climb into my tree.

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6 responses to “drawing lessons

  • Anonymous

    Very cool… well, except for the flying furniture. Hoping you’ll be posting some pics of the fruits of your labors soon!

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  • Anonymous

    Ugh, that’s terrible. :-/
    As if you need the aggravation.
    *hugs*

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  • Anonymous

    Very nice 🙂 Visiting Centralia was one of the items on my todo list while I
    was in town for the holidays, but things were busy enough that it didn’t end up
    happening.
    I don’t think it’s been released to DVD yet, but there was a documentary about
    Centralia at the Philadelphia Film Festival last year, “<a
    href=http://www.thetownthatwas.com/>The Town that Was“. You can <a
    href=http://www.thetownthatwas.com/trailer>view the trailer online, which
    includes footage they shot of steam rising from the landscape, and
    the broken highway leading into town. Much of the documentary consisted of interviews with the
    town’s three or four remaining residents that refuse to leave, but unfortunately none of those interviews appear in the trailer.
    -mct

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  • Anonymous

    what amazes me is that you’re actually willing to talk to him after all this.
    *hugs*

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  • uneedak1u

    Linda: this is one of the most remarkable pieces of writing I’ve ever read. You really, seriously should look into publishing it somewhere.
    And your childhood sounds much like mine, except I wasn’t quiet; I went out of my way to try and gain attention that wasn’t forthcoming.
    Perspective is an amazing thing …

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    • lsaboe

      sometimes i think it’s a wonder we managed at all.
      *sigh*
      i honestly don’t know where i’m going with these stories. there must be something going on that is making me write these little windows into how it was. but publish? omy, i can’t imagine how to do that and who really would want to read the confused thoughts that were mine long ago. if i were a writer, i might know what to do with them, but i’m not. owell.

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